Except for jalapeños - I hate the stuff.
Not liking such a staple food makes me a bit of an outlier. I don’t much like chicken-fried steak or okra either, but I pretty much keep that to myself. The jalapeno thing can be a problem though when eating in a restaurant if a meal that otherwise looks appealing comes with jalapeños.
“Hold the jalapeños,” I said to the man taking our dinner order.
“What?”
I was reasonably certain that he heard what I said, but I repeated it.
“Hold the jalapeños. I don’t want them in my dinner.”
“You have something against jalapeños?” he said with a sneer, ensuring that his tip would be of the sort that he would not recognize it as such.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Yes, I do.”
“Okay,” he said, shaking his head, giving me a look that clearly stated his opinion of me. You would think I had insulted George Strait, Emmitt Smith, or bluebonnets or something.
The cook didn’t seem to have a problem not including jalapeños with my dinner, and the waiter served my food without further incident.
My problem with this particular type of chili pepper goes back 50 years.
I was living in Columbia, Missouri in the mid-1970s, and a friend named Frank somehow got into a bet with a mutual friend involving jalapeños. I have no idea how or why this started, but this friend bet Frank that he could not eat a double jalapeño pepper pizza without getting sick. Frank was not an especially competitive guy, but he took this challenge seriously. For reasons I cannot fathom, I decided to help him win this bet.
One Friday night, we went to our favorite pizza joint. I wish I could remember the name of the place, but this was 50 years ago, so it’s probably long gone. Anyway, we arrived, ordered a pitcher of beer, and prepared ourselves for the jalapeño ordeal. Neither of us were especially fond of these peppers, but this was a bet and Frank was determined to win.
“How hard can this be?” Frank had said earlier.
We ordered the pizza, and the waitress was a bit startled.
“You want double jalapeños?” she said.
“Yes,” said Frank.
“You want a double jalapeño pepper pizza?”
She looked at me and I nodded.
“Double,” I confirmed.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she said. “jalapeños aren’t for everyone.”
“Yes,” said Frank.
“Wow. Okay. You guys are a little crazy, I think.”
“Maybe so,” said Frank, pouring himself another beer.
The pizza arrived, and we dug in. It wasn’t too bad at first, but as we got deeper into it, we were starting to regret accepting this idiotic challenge.
“This is harder than I thought it would be,” said Frank about halfway through this weird tasting pizza.
“We can quit any time,” I said, draining my beer glass and reaching for the newly delivered fresh pitcher and another slice.
“No way,” said Frank, firmly. “I took this bet, and I’m going to win that money.”
“Is this really worth one-hundred dollars?” I said.
“It damn sure is.”
I wasn’t so certain, but I didn’t stop either. It took us longer than normal to finish this large pizza, but we did it. The server came to the table with the check, and she had an odd look on her face.
“I hate to tell you this,” she said. “But we had a little miscommunication in the kitchen about your pizza.”
“What does that mean?” said Frank.
“I mean, somehow, the cook…”
“What?” said Frank.
“Well, somehow, the cook made a double-double jalapeño pizza.”
“He put four times the normal amount of jalapeños?” said Frank.
“I’m sorry. Yes.”
“Holy crap,” I said, staring at the large, empty pizza pan. “Holy crap.”
“I thought it tasted a bit strong,” said Frank, starting to laugh. “We ate a double-double jalapeño dose,” he said, looking at me. “Will you write that on the ticket and sign it?” he said to the server.”
“Sure. Why?”
“It was a bet,” said Frank. “I need to prove we did it.”
“Okay,” she said. “I wondered why you would want to do such a crazy thing. Are you guys okay?”
“We’re good,” said Frank.
I wasn’t, but it was too late now. The pizza was eaten – with a staggering, toxic amount of jalapeño peppers, washed down with two pitchers of beer.
“I just want to remind you guys that I tried to talk you out of this,” she said.
“You did for sure,” said Frank. “But I won the bet.”
An hour later, Frank was a little pale, but he seemed okay. I, on the other hand, was not.
“You don’t look so good,” said Frank.
“I don’t feel so good.”
“Are you going to puke?”
“No,” I said, but my stomach strongly disagreed.
Five minutes later, I was puking my guts out. This delightful episode went on for several hours until I was totally spent.
“Are you going to live?” said Frank.
“Probably not. How about you?”
“If I didn’t puke after listening to you for the last three hours, I think I’ll survive. I can’t believe we ate a double-double,” said Frank.
“Yeah.”
I still don’t know how Frank didn’t get sick after ingesting all of that poison, but that was about as sick as I had ever been. Frank won the bet, but I got nothing for my valiant efforts. Except, that is, for a lifetime aversion to jalapeño peppers. To this day, the slightest scent of the things makes me queasy. You would think that after five decades, the memory would have faded, but it has not. It’s no great loss, really. I didn’t like the damn things to begin with.
I hope Frank enjoyed that hundred dollars. I did not enjoy any of that unfortunate incident. And I will never put one of those evil chili peppers in my stomach again – no matter how much money is on the line.
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Larry Manch is an author, teacher, guitar player, freelance writer, and columnist. He has written 24 books; available in paperback and e-book on Amazon.com.
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